


A’maelamin. Tampa - My Beloved. Stop.

by BouncyBrittonie



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BouncyBrittonie/pseuds/BouncyBrittonie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off the prompt of a hurt Bard, continuing to help his people. </p>
<p>'Imagine Bard wounded during battle of five armies but is still running negotiations for his people to the point of nearly collapsing on one of the meetings. Imagine Thranduil sliding on his knees near pale Bard and starting to chant healing spells. Imagine faces of others, from utter shock to quiet understanding.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A’maelamin. Tampa - My Beloved. Stop.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr - bouncybrittonie.tumblr.com
> 
> This fandom is so lovely and so welcoming, I hope to be able to contribute to it as much as I can!

"The western quarter needs to be rebuilt first, the walls are strong and the destruction is minimal, somehow it was missed by the dragon’s might."

Bard’s short nails dug into his palms as he listened. He felt a single drop of sweat creep its way down his spine and pool at the hollow of his back. He was hot, so very hot, but the snow outside, and the cool breeze through the gaps in the floorboards and the tent did nothing to cool the fire beneath his skin. His lips felt sore and cracked, and stuck like glue, he had little moisture left in his mouth to ease the way. An elven attendant gently touched his shoulder and offered him more cool water, but his stomach couldn’t bare it. He gestured for the large pitcher to be sent outside.

The elf inclined his head in mutual understanding.

Bard couldn’t. No more than his own share.

Not while his people were working hard, and needed more.

"Of course, the stores need to be replenished before all of this, we need to be able to feed the workers, and I believe the children are in need of new clothes. We can barter with the towns reaching up to the Grey Mountains. Some may even offer charity."

"The elves of Rivendell have offered their assistance; riders should be here within the coming weeks, with as much supply as they are able to send." Thranduil’s voice was tinged with distaste, but he quickly cleared his throat and straightened proudly in his chair. "And of course, Mirkwood will continue with its support."

A secret smile turned up the corners of Bard’s lips. Thranduil had not left Dale, even after the great battle. The Great Elf King had barely left his own side, and Bard was, just quietly, very grateful. He had been elevated to King, quite unwillingly, through the power of the people, when all he wanted was the safety of his family. Thranduil, had not been a rock, but like the feeling of the hood at your neck of your cloak before an impending rain. Or the feel of the safety line around your waist, on a boat during a storm.

Simply there, for whenever you needed to call.

Someone spoke, but Bard did not know who, his vision swam and he wished to drop his head to the cool wood on the table before him.

"Moral in this broken city is, however, at an all-time high! King Bard has led his people through a great war, and honored what few dead we were unfortunate to have. He is the beacon in the night for a city of lost people, and as such, he will continue to be!"

His wounds burned, and he pressed a hand gently to his stomach, slowly, carefully as not to arouse suspicion. His throat threatened to close when he pulled it back and found it covered in red.

"Say King Bard! What have you think for our next move? Building is right on track, our needed building supplies are being sent from request from the furnaces of Erabor, and every available citizen with knowledge of farming is preparing the land for crops. Where would you suggest that we look to next?"

Bard’s face paled, his head swam.

King king king king.

He was not a King.

He wanted peace.

He wanted the gentle sounds of the forest, sitting side by side with Thranduil.

He wanted silence.

He wanted his family.

He wanted his wife.

He wanted the cool feel of her palms on his forehead.

He wanted to see the gentleness of his Elf King’s eyes.

He wanted sleep.

He wanted the calmness of her voice in his ear. Of his voice.

His throat burned. His eyes followed. They stung.

He reached up to rub the feeling away, and left a slick unwelcome feeling on his cheek.

"King Bard! Is that-?"

"I am not a King!"

The words were torn like a sob from his throat. He pushed himself away from the table, sending the chair crashing back onto the floor. He hoisted himself up, leaving hand prints of blood on the edge of the table. A room of faces stared at him in horror, but he didn’t care, it was all too much.

"Look to me for guidance, for advice, for help. But I am not a King. The people of this city have made me a leader, and I try my very best to be their strength, but do NOT call me a King!"

" _A’maelamin. Tampa._ *"

Bard’s eyes filled with tears, and he felt his legs turn to water in his boots. His eyes frantically searched for Thranduil at the table before the fire in his skin overtook him, and then he was falling, the golden silence settling over him like a curtain.

He didn’t hear, and he didn’t see, but he did feel. Oh, did he feel.

He felt the difference of Elven skin on his own. Of the pure strength of his King as he cushioned his fall and lowered him to the floor. He felt his shirt and the waist of his trousers being ripped away to reveal the injuries underneath, careful hands removing the soiled bandages that acted as a makeshift remedy.

He felt the air change, he felt crowded in and then the vibrations of Thranduil’s voice against his hair, he was yelling, and the air cleared and it was easier to breathe.

Then the feel of cool cloth and water and he didn’t need to hear or see to know that he opened his mouth and eyes and simply roared.

And it was all heat and pain, so much pain.

But then it slowly ebbed away.

The sounds came back in drips, and he could hear words, but with a beautiful melody behind his ears.

Then he saw muted glow, and a halo of gold around a head of hair which seemed to be made of starlight.

He was smiling, even though his lips wouldn’t listen, and he felt the warmth within his body as Thranduil pressed firm hands over the wounds on his stomach. It was still painful, but the most of it had been lifted from his shoulders and he would cry in relief if he could. And he was filled with a peace that he thought would only come with death.

His Elf King’s lips moved constantly, beautiful, fluid movements and he wished so desperately to be able to move his hands up so that the pads of his fingers could brush against their softness. And his eyes, they were aglow and Bard could only marvel at their beauty.

Sensing the fever lifting, Thranduil smiled in relief, a secret smile that was only meant for Bard, and lifted a slender hand from the wound and placed it upon Bard’s burning forehead.

" _Sleep, Melamin**, sleep._ "

——————————————————

Thranduil had a tent of his own, set up in a hidden corner of the town, for the privacy of Bard’s people for as much as his own. And he was as thankful for his choice as ever.

This meeting has been the last of the day, and the sun had long since slipped behind the skyline. Most of the town was in bed, and the Elf King had moved silently through empty streets, even with the comfortable weight of the man sleeping in his arms. Thranduil had calmly ordered a shocked committee to return to their families and to continue their work with the people.

_"He was wounded in battle, but chose to keep it concealed to continue to be a support to the people he had suddenly become a leader to. A foolish decision, but done out of the goodness of his heart and the love of the hurting people. Much like a mirror of his own family. Urgent business can be directed to Feren. I will take him to continue to heal."_

There was no unsympathetic eyes in the whole of the room, and that Thranduil was grateful for. As much as he didn’t want the pressures of the people, Bard would be thankful that they would feel no animosity for his outburst.

It felt as though a hand had wrapped around his heart and had started to tighten its grip. The Elf King furrowed his brow and smoothed down the covers that rest over Bard’s bare legs, stopping at where the new bandages wrapped around his waist. The man was much cooler now, and looked clean and comfortable, bare between Thranduil’s blankets.

"Oh Bard, you perfectly taxing man. You do make me feel uneasy."

Thranduil had called for a single Elven aid, and together they removed Bard’s worn and ripped clothing. They had warmed pots full of fresh snow, and gently cleaned the dirt and blood from both his wounds, and clear skin. Lastly, his aid had left his side and Thranduil was left alone to clean the dried blood from Bard’s face.

He had taken his time, selfishly, as little magic kept the man peacefully in the waters of his dreams. He had washed and combed Bard’s hair, and braided it behind his ears, to help keep the curls from his face during his sleep.

And when his hands lingered, he wished that his touch did not have to come during false sleep.

And when he was done, and the man was holding his own course in his dreams, he wished that Bard did not have to look this comfortable by coming back from the waters of death.

Thranduil reached up, slowly, and held his fingertips above the swell of Bard’s chapped lips. It was a tense moment, and the King felt his pulse stop, before he felt the satisfying heat of warm breath against his skin.

He closed his eyes in relief.

But then felt lightning strike down his spine.

His eyes shot open at the feeling of open lips press against his fingers, and a still overly warm palm cover the outside of his hand, Bard’s slight grip doing a job of holding his arm in place. Thranduil felt a fire of his own creep into his cheeks, and he watched as green eyes slowly opened, and Bard rolled his head on the pillow, pressing the Elf King’s hand to his cheek.

"Thranduil."

Oh. His voice was rough and hoarse from sleep and sickness, but it was tinged with a smile and was more beautiful to him than anything.

"You are a trying man, Bard the Dragon slayer." Thranduil’s thumb stroked Bard’s cheek and the man smiled at the scolding. "You need not sacrifice yourself to show your people that your value their happiness above your own. There are other ways, and they do not include worrying your own people, and your family." Bard tucked his lower lip between his teeth at this comment, the guilt creeping in. But Thranduil would have none of it, and stroked the fullness with his thumb, releasing it from its confines. "You need not worry me."

"I am sorry, my King." Bard’s whisper was filled with tenderness and a love that made his heart ache, and a yearning of such an endearment to be sighed to him in the heat of passion instead.

Thranduil sighed, and lent forward, pressing his lips to the now cool skin of Bard’s forehead. “Heal now, and rest. And make sure that next time; there will be a better reason for your naked sun kissed skin to look so wonderful against my white sheets.”

He felt laughter bubble up beneath Bard’s skin, and the Elf King knew that all was well.

**Author's Note:**

> *My beloved. Stop.  
> ** Love


End file.
